Of Gunpowder and (W)retched Company
by aphforeignrelations
Summary: USUK. America falls ill, England cares for him. I swear there will be an actual plot, it is just not apparent yet. Blown away by my summary, I know, I know. Alright, let the story COMMENCE!


Too sweet? Too bitter? More water, perhaps dull the taste, weaken the colour?

England looked to his porcelain salvation, the item was the only thing between dead-like slumber and productivity during long nights in the lonely mansion. This night, unfortunately, was not one of those.

The dregs of his gunpowder tea sat lonesome at the base of the teacup as Arthur gazed at them, a blissful distraction from the moaning figure curled up and withering beside him in the plush comforter which practically swaddled the man.

Many a time had England attempted to drown out the pitiful whimpers to no avail, to quail the source; sing a lullaby, provide words of comfort.

"O God, this really sucks balls." Whispered America, his voice rasping over a worn out throat, lining stripped by bouts of coughs and vomiting.

Alfred's eyes were glazed over, face pale but for the unnatural tinge of his cheeks. His whole frame shook, cold sweat clung to his neck and face, the only part of him visible beneath the heavy bedding.

England was knocked out of his slight stupor, dragged back to the miserable man at his side.

"My, America, your eloquence certainly hasn't improved any."England replied softly, placing the teacup to its saucer with a light clack!, he laid his cool hand on America's heated forehead, gauging his temperature.

America leaned into the touch, exhaling a small sound of relief.

England observed America's peaceful expression, sympathy swelling up in his chest. Poor boy, thought England.

If only America hadn't been so idiotic as to trudge through the rain and muck.

By the time he had shown up on England's doorstep late but twelve hours before he had been drenched, shivering and half-delusional, muttering nonsense as he'd pushed passed the entrance and promptly passed out on the floor, or he would have, had England not rushed and caught him before he'd collided face-first to the wood.

England sighed to himself for what felt like the thousandth time this night.

Worry gnawed at his stomach, filled with dreadful outcomes. But no, the situation called for critical thinking, certainly not chaotic. Presumption bid him no good.

"O gosh," Alfred panted, teeth pulled back in a grimace as he turned to face England," Hate to ask, but would you mind helping me up?"

Deeming the request appertaining Author stood, knees popping as he did so, allowing Alfred to grasp his wrist as he hoisted his quivering corse out of the bed.

America laid his forehead on the elder's shoulder, exhausted at the journey from mattress to floor.

England glanced at the man gasping at his side, his rather prominent eyebrows scrunched together in concern. "Are you able enough to make it...?"

Alfred moaned.

"... Or shall I fetch a waste bin?"

The normally bespectacled nation quirked a grin that fast ceded as the grimace made another appearance.

"Oh dear, Arthur. You are far too kind to me."

The pristine white restroom did not flatter the user, hunched over the toilet seat as he emptied his long-since emptied stomach, nothing but bile ran down from America's mouth. Sweat cascaded from Alfred's skin, glistening in the artificial light as he choked and sobbed, allowing a moment of weakness to show.

Arthur sat at his side, occasionally wiping Alfred's mouth and forehead with wipes, murmuring things he hoped would comfort the man.

This had been going on for around an hour or so now; a repetitive practice of vomit and vomit again, perhaps interrupted by a few minutes break, the likely reason Alfred had not passed out from oxygen deprivation.

After a pause in the prosses, the glassy-eyed nation spoke:

"I-I think I'm good." Rasped America, glancing England's thigh with his fingertips. Just as England went to confirm the statement America collapsed into him, large figure slumping into the much smaller man's grasp.

Arthur observed Alfred as his mouth was once more swiped clean. The dazed heavy-lidded look Alfred gave him did not seem promising, nor the cheeks dyed a high red in fever. Alfred wheezed up at him, chest seizing as he attempted to catch his breath.

Arthur planted a gentle hand on Alfred's cheek, thumb petting softly under the eye. "Perhaps you'd prefer a proper bed to the tile?"

Alfred nudged his nose into the tender skin between Arthur's thumb and index, nodding his accord accompanied by a small sound of approval.


End file.
